What's Done Is Done
by dS-Tiff
Summary: After being forced to tell Gerry he won't be playing Macbeth again Geoffrey has a lot to mull over, but Oliver just won't leave him alone.


_**This is my first attempt at a Slings and Arrows fic. I love this show so much, I hope I've gone some way at least to doing justice to the characters. All comments welcome, thank you kindly.**_

**WHAT'S DONE IS DONE**

"Ooh, did you see the look on his face? He was crushed. That was cruel, Geoffrey."

Geoffrey Tennant's head hit his desk with a thud at the sound of the voice coming from behind him. "Oliver, please, not now. I'd like to spend some time alone feeling like shit, if you don't mind."

"But did you see his face?" Oliver wasn't going to let it drop.

"Yes, I did see his face," replied Geoffrey, lifting his head, but refusing to turn around, "but he wasn't crushed, as you put it, he was just disappointed."

"But he was magnificent last night," continued Oliver. "All things considered," he added.

"Yes, yes he was," agreed Geoffrey. "And he will always have that. No one can take that moment from him…not even Henry."

"You can't really blame Henry," shrugged Oliver. "This is entirely your doing."

"My doing?" Now Geoffrey's head snapped round to glare at the ghost. "This is not my fault. I fired Henry because he was impossible to work with. And I put Gerry on because I knew he could do it and I thought he deserved a chance to prove himself."

"Which he did," agreed Oliver. "I mean, he's no Mackers, but you should certainly give him a bigger role next season."

"And I will," nodded Geoffrey. He rolled his tongue around between his teeth and tried to push the image of Gerry walking forlornly out of his office from his mind

"But now you're going to go crawling back to Henry with your dignity in a basket and beg him to come back," sighed Oliver.

"Yes," agreed Geoffrey, staring wide eyed at Oliver. Did he have to rub it in like this? "Yes, that's exactly what I'm going to do and I'm doing it for the good of the festival."

"Nonsense," retorted Oliver. "You're doing it for Ellen, even though she threw you out of your own home."

"She did not throw me out, I left," Geoffrey pointed out. "And it was never really my home, was it. We were living together in her home. That's different."

"Don't be pedantic," snapped Oliver. "So, if Henry says yes – which we can all assume he will – are you going to allow him to walk all over you again?"

Geoffrey stood up from his chair. "What else can I do?" he replied, waving his hands in the air. "Henry won't take my direction. Ellen is going to follow whatever Henry does and the whole play will be terrible, but at least Richard will be happy because people will buy tickets just to see Henry."

"I'm surprised at you, Geoffrey," sighed Oliver. "You're the director and you're pandering to him. You need to put on my play not Henry Breedlove's."

"Your play?" exclaimed Geoffrey, running his fingers wildly through his untamed hair. "It's my play! I want to put on my Macbeth! Why doesn't anyone take me seriously around here?"

"Because you're a madman?" offered Oliver, dryly.

Geoffrey slumped back down into his chair. "No, I am not," he insisted.

"Ellen thinks you are," Oliver pointed out. "That's why she can't live with you."

"So you keep reminding me," sighed Geoffrey. "You know, none of this would be happening if you would just leave me the fuck alone."

"But you need me," replied Oliver, putting on his best hurt feelings face. "We're so good together."

"Is that what you said to Ellen to get her into bed?" sneered Geoffrey.

This time Oliver was genuinely hurt. "Geoffrey…"

"I'm sorry," said Geoffrey, quickly. "I shouldn't have brought that up." He looked down at the floor and chewed the inside of his cheek.

"No, you shouldn't," agreed Oliver. "We agreed never to talk about it again."

"Not quite," noted Geoffrey. "You begged me never to talk about it again. I'm not sure that I agreed, but I'll concede that now is most definitely not the time."

Oliver nodded. "You have to go and grovel to Henry now."

"I should never have started this," Geoffrey said, leaping out of his chair again and walking round to the front of his desk. "Macbeth, I mean. I should have taken Romeo and Juliet. Darren Nicholls is killing it."

"I saw that," agreed Oliver.

"Those kids are good," continued Geoffrey. "They're really good and he's sucking all the life from them and from the play. Is it too late to swap? I mean, I could direct Romeo and Juliet and let Darren do the Macbeth. See how Henry likes that."

"You've already done one preview," Oliver pointed out.

Geoffrey sighed. Of course he was being ridiculous; it really was far too late to do anything about it now, but he was desperate for a way out.

"Maybe if I locked Henry and Darren in a closet they might kill each other and then all my problems would be over?" Geoffrey suggested, his mind working overtime as he thought through scenarios.

"But then there won't be a Mackers, or an R and J and Richard will fire you," said Oliver.

"Maybe I should just quit and save him the trouble?" pondered Geoffrey.

"Oh come on, Geoffrey," said Oliver. "You don't really mean that?"

"Well there's little point me being here," replied Geoffrey. "Henry doesn't need a director, apparently."

"Surely you can understand his frustration," frowned Oliver.

"So now you're siding with him?"

"No," insisted Oliver. "But he has done this three times before with great success."

"So he tells me…frequently," Geoffrey rolled his eyes. "I wonder if a video exists of any of those performances? Perhaps we could just project it onto a screen at the back of the stage and the other actors could work to that? Then he wouldn't have to bother showing up here at all!"

"Now you're being ridiculous," snapped Oliver.

"Am I?" asked Geoffrey. "It's no more ridiculous than the man blatantly refusing to follow my direction. I have a vision for this play and the only way I can bring that vision to life is if the actors fucking well do what I tell them. Like last night. I saw it for the first time last night, Oliver."

Geoffrey clenched his hand into a fist and thumped it against his chest.

"I saw my Macbeth on that stage for the first time since we started rehearsing. I know Gerry was terrified, but that fear only made Macbeth feel even more real, more human. That's what I've been asking for all this time." He swallowed hard as emotion welled inside him.

"Henry is not going to take his clothes off for you," Oliver pointed out.

Geoffrey let out a growl of frustration. "I'm not asking him to be naked for me! It's for the play…for the character…for the audience." He started pacing up and down, desperately trying to think of a way to make Henry understand his vision.

"Henry doesn't care about any of those things," replied Oliver.

"Then what is the point of any of it?" asked Geoffrey.

Oliver shrugged. "What's the point of living? You only end up dying."

"Oh for the love of god!" exclaimed Geoffrey. "For just one minute could you please stop feeling sorry for yourself and help me?"

"I've been trying to help you for weeks," Oliver pointed out. "And all I get in return is you yelling at me. It hurts, Geoffrey. You've ripped the heart out of my Macbeth."

"It's my Macbeth!" yelled Geoffrey. "I'm using the thrust, aren't I? And some of your other ideas; some of them are actually good, but don't let that go to your head." He stopped to take a deep breath before continuing in a calmer voice. "As much as I appreciate what you've been trying to do, Oliver, you haven't helped me at all. You've done nothing but criticise and I am not mentally equipped to take so much criticism at this particular time."

"You're not mentally equipped for very much at all, if you ask me," retorted Oliver snidely. "Have you seen yourself lately? You look like a…like a…"

"Like a madman?" suggested Geoffrey.

"Well you said it, not me," replied Oliver, folding his arms across his chest.

Geoffrey leaned across his desk, supporting himself on his hands until his face was inches from Oliver's. "I am not mad," he began through gritted teeth, desperately trying not to lose control. "I suffered a breakdown eight years ago for which I received treatment in a mental hospital until I had recovered my sanity. I am, officially, no longer mad."

"Officially," repeated Oliver, knowingly.

It was no use. Oliver had pushed him too far and Geoffrey's face went a shade of deep red as he yelled. "I…AM…NOT…MAD!"

Geoffrey waited for a response - a snide retort, anything - but Oliver remained silent. Geoffrey's brow furrowed in puzzlement.

Oliver cleared his throat and pointed over Geoffrey's shoulder. His mouth formed a pout as he tried to keep a straight face.

Geoffrey's eyes widened and he momentarily froze to the spot as he realised what Oliver was trying to tell him. He spun round to find Anna standing in the doorway.

"Anna!" he exclaimed, flashing his best smile and smoothing down his hair in a vain attempt to look respectable. "I…I didn't know you were there."

"I'm sorry, Geoffrey," began Anna, a look of mild fear in her eyes. "I didn't want to interrupt…" She trailed off.

"Oh, it's OK, I think we're…" Geoffrey immediately stopped himself. "I think I'm done now," he finished. "I was just…working on the play."

"I see," replied Anna, staring at him as if she was waiting for something else to happen.

"Did you need me for something?" prompted Geoffrey.

"Oh, oh yes, sorry," she said. "Um, Alice in wardrobe has a question about Ellen's costume. She'd like to see you now if you're free."

"Right…right," nodded Geoffrey. "Tell her I'll be five minutes."

Anna began slowly backing out of the room, not quite able to take her eyes off Geoffrey.

"Oh and Anna," added Geoffrey, waving his hand at her. "Please contact Henry Breedlove and ask him to come in. I…I need to talk to him."

Anna nodded silently and left the office.

Geoffrey spun round to find Oliver had disappeared. He rubbed his eyes with his fists just to make sure and, even though he knew it would only be a temporary respite, he breathed a sigh of relief.


End file.
